


2x2xPub

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hat, M/M, Mycroft Holmes is omnisexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes stop by the pub after a long, hard day, and are unexpectedly joined by some familiar faces. And have their coats stolen. There may be kissing. Mycroft is wearing a hat, so yes, there will be kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2x2xPub

The pub was loud, and dark, and still smelled smoky years after the smoking ban. And it was crowded. Greg looked around carefully, holding the door open behind him for Mycroft. He knew the Yarders were a thirsty bunch, but it was a large pub, and this wasn’t their end of it. And anything was better than wading through puddles in the wind and rain, umbrella or no. “You go get us a table,” Greg said over his shoulder. “Pint or shot?”

“Irish coffee, if they’re up to it,” Mycroft answered, removing his hat and shifting aside to let someone past them out the door.

“Ah, genius. Knew I liked you for a reason,” Greg said with a grin. “I’ll find you - just let me sit down.” His feet and legs ached, his shoes and socks were wet, and he hadn’t sat down in the last six hours. Mycroft hadn’t got quite as wet, having only joined him during the last couple of hours at the scene. In spite of the weather, the press had still clustered around the building, and Greg had been grateful there was anyone else cleared to speak to them. 

Mycroft nodded and slipped away, leaving Greg to shoulder his way through to the bar. It didn’t take him long to catch the barman’s eye - it helped to be a regular - and to save time, he got two brandies and two coffees on a tray, and turned back to scan the tables for Mycroft.

It never failed. There were two things he dearly wished he could learn from the Holmes brothers: getting a cab no matter the time or the place, and getting a table in any pub. He didn’t know if Sherlock was as good in a pub, but whenever they wanted to sit, Mycroft made it happen. It was probably some subtle blend of neurolinguistic programming, intimidation, and charm, but Greg had never figured it out. He was quite happy to get the first round in exchange for an absolute guarantee that there would be somewhere to set them down when he came back.

And there Mycroft was, up a few stairs in one of the window tables, his wet, black trench coat draped on the back of his chair, his attention seemingly focused on his mobile. Greg grinned, navigating the stairs carefully in the crowd, and saw Mycroft’s lips twitch in response. Yes, it might have been in response to a message on his phone. He was certainly reading something, and it was almost certainly terribly important. But Greg was no longer fooled by the subterfuge. 

“The coffee’s decent, the whiskey less so, but I guarantee the brandy will be worth drinking.”

Mycroft looked up at him with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “I’ll look forward to it,” he said, reaching across for the saucer Greg held out. “But ahh, heat. Most welcome.” He curled his long fingers around the cup and took a sip.

“Anything come up?” Greg asked, spreading his own coat on the back of his chair before easing down onto the seat. “ _God,_ sitting. What a brilliant invention chairs are.”

Mycroft glanced at his phone, then tucked it away inside his jacket. “No, nothing really. Things seem to be holding up. There will be some loose ends in the morning, but nothing you’ll need to worry about.”

“Your side?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded once. Greg took a sip of his own coffee and groaned involuntarily. “Ohh... sorry. Now if this fucking weather would clear up and my feet could dry out, I think I could die a contented man.”

Mycroft tipped his head. “You have such simple desires, Greg. It makes you so easy to be around.” He stretched his legs out under the table, crossing his ankles and slouching a bit.

“Ah, I knew there’d be some explanation for that. And as soon as I figure out how to clear out a table, I can stop dumbing down.”

“You realise what you’ve just said.”

“That I can replace you? Oh, yeah.”

“That you can’t figure out... no, nevermind.”

“Oi, Holmes. Don’t make me get up and come over there.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Not when I can snap your ankles from here,” Greg said, taking a gulp of coffee to hide his smile.

“Did you hear what BNN were asking?” Mycroft asked.

“What? Oh, about the witnesses? Yeah. Why?”

“Thinking of sending Mrs. Hudson down later with tea and biscuits. Some of them will be making a night of it.”

“Tonight? No, I think they all cleared out before we left.”

“Not all of them.”

“Who was left?”

“Besides BNN, two of the US networks, _Guardian_ , and the _Sun_.”

“No! Dimmock told me he’d checked!”

“Don’t blame him. They were ’round the back.”

“The hell were they doing there?” Greg frowned, then looked at Mycroft’s face. “No. You didn’t.” Mycroft opened his mouth, then shrugged, making a face as though biting back his words. “You sent them there!” Greg began to laugh, leaning forward across the table. “You twisty bastard. You sent them around back!”

Mycroft didn’t look up. “I...may have implied that there was another door.”

“But that was the whole point! If there’d been another door -”

“ _All_ I said was that all of the witnesses had left via the front door, in full view of the press and police. If Alison Holt wanted to leap to the conclusion that there was something to hide, and a back door that was so secret the police wouldn’t compromise it by using it to rescue hostages...” He trailed off with another expressively sarcastic shrug.

X

“Your friend is back in tonight, I see.” Sally Donovan nodded back toward the crowded bar, setting two glasses on the table.

Siobhan craned her neck, then shrank back down, grabbing the glass of orange juice as if she could hide behind it. “Blonde creep of jackassery,” she muttered, letting her purple hair fall forward onto her face. “Never ever let me try online dating again. I’m better off waiting in the public toilets in Brighton.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can meet a nice pair of dildos in a sex shop.”

“Batteries are much easier to replace than crockery.”

“Amen.” Sally clinked her glass with Siobhan’s and took a swallow. “You wanna change seats?”

“Shiny. It was that or I was going to ask if you’d let your hair down.”

“Shut up!” Sally swatted at her. “You know how long it took me to get it up?”

“Did you just say that in a crowded bar? And did five men just turn and stare at you?”

Sally crinkled her face, squeezing her eyes shut. “Oh God. Any of them fit?”

Siobhan just laughed. 

“We’ve got to stop doing this. We’re just here for the drinks.”

“You’re just here for the drinks,” Siobhan corrected pointedly, raising her orange juice.

“I’m here for the drinks. And because another night of _Strictly_ and I was going to slit someone’s wrists.”

“Ooh, pick me!” Siobhan said with mock excitement. “But really. Options? Online dating, which I’ve proven scientifically is only possible if you have more optimism than personality.”

“For which we thank you.”

Siobhan began ticking points off on her fingers. “Work: you get weirdos and crazies, alcoholics, druggies, rebounding middle-aged saddos who’ve lost their wives because they’re married to the job, and serial womanizers. Yeah?”

“Oh, God, don’t remind me. But I’ve learned. I have learned. Never ever date a co-worker. It’s simple.” She spread her hands, straightening her shoulders. “Never again.”

“And what do I get? Lobbyists, which is just another name for ‘professional liars.’ Politicians, same thing. Possible terrorists - always a hoot at parties. A bunch of civil servants, whose idea of a good time consists of wearing a green tie on Thursday instead of a red one. Lawyers - more liars.”

“At least your lot are better-paid wankers.”

“Some of them. It’s surprisingly hard to tell until they empty their pockets. And somehow, it’s amazing how three crumpled condom wrappers can kill the mood.”

“I know! I was stunned.”

“So what’s left? Pub, club, groceries.”

“Have we become bitchy old maids?”

“Not yet. Give us ten years.”

Sally laughed, glancing aside as someone bumped into their table. There’d been a time when she would have said, “Prick!” and stared him down if he’d heard, but tonight she couldn’t be arsed. And that thought made her automatically scan the room, briefly back in copper mode. A man in a dark suit caught her eye. Or rather, the suit caught her eye.

Siobhan saw her head turn and followed the look. “What?”

“There is a man, over there, by the windows.... oh _God,_ don’t look.” She turned away calmly, and made a face when the back of her head was safely hiding her. “Oh my God. I have never seen a suit like that in here.”

Siobhan rocked back in her chair. “Dammit, at least tell me what I’m missing if I can’t look.”

“Okay.” Sally spread her fingers on the table. “Really dark blue, kind of a check pattern with grey lines? Light blue shirt, dark red tie, kind of wine-coloured. Oh, and it’s _three-piece._ My God, I didn’t even see his face. I just want to take his suit back to my place and roll around on it.”

“Really? Three-piece gets you?”

“No, I mean, this is expensive. I’m not talking Armani. This is custom-made, I bet you anything.”

“Seriously?” Siobhan took a sip from her orange juice. “You should come visit me at work sometime. We get that kind of shit all the time.”

“And how many of them do you frisk?”

“I’m very good about it, actually,” Siobhan said formally. “The only gratuitous frisking I do is that one guy.”

“Oh yeah. Sure. And you said you quit that.”

“I was told to.”

“Did you?” Sally asked, her face breaking into a grin.

“Well. Mostly.”

“You cow! You frisked him again?”

“Maybe a little.”

Sally laughed, a little harder than she needed to, just for the excuse to glance at the dark suit again, this time going for detail. “Ohhh, he’s even got a hat.” She shook her hands, flapping the fingers. “And I’m not making this up, but he’s drinking coffee.”

Siobhan raised her eyebrows. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously, he’s got a cup and saucer. He’s got great hands. Mmm.”

“Maybe he’s got something else in it. Spiked it.”

“Yeah, but no one ever got drunk on Irish coffee. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? The coffee keeps you awake?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Don’t look at me.”

“I want to buy him a drink.”

“Are you serious? I have to see this suit. Where is he?”

Sally closed her eyes, trying to remember. “I think he’s, like, third table from the back, in the window.”

“Okay. I’m going to go to the toilet, and check him out.”

“See if it really is coffee. I’m gonna do this.”

“Here we go.” Siobhan stood up, looking back down at Sally’s face and laughing. “God! Finish your pint first, at least! It’s my round.”

Sally lifted her glass. “You’re right. If I’m nervous, I’m still far too sober.”

When Siobhan had gone, it took all of Sally’s self-control not to turn and stare again. She concentrated on remembering what she’d seen before. The subtle grey pattern on the dark blue wool of the suit had caught her eye, and the red of his tie had been such a bold contrast. The man had a long-and-lean look that she quite liked, although she really hadn’t bothered much with looking at his face. There was a black coat on the back of his chair, probably a trench coat, and a long umbrella hooked on the table beside him. There had been someone at the table across from him, he’d been talking, smiling... Damn. She thought it had been another man, so there was a chance, but she couldn’t be sure. Dark hair, thinning, so probably in an acceptable age range. And he’d just _moved_ well - that hand on the coffee cup, the way his body had shifted as he spoke, the angle of his head. Poised, that was the word. 

Siobhan came back with another round. “Well.”

Sally looked up, seeing her friend’s grim expression. “What did you do?”

“I actually know him. Well, sort of. I think he works in my building.”

_“You’re joking!”_ Sally’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God. Did he see you?”

“Probably. I doubt he recognized me with my hair down, and out of uniform, though. I mean, that isn’t even the bad news.”

“Oh my God...”

“The guy he’s with is my frisky friend.”

Sally hesitated. “Wait. What?”

“That guy that I frisk. He’s talking to your suit-man.”

Sally leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table and hiding the lower part of her face behind her hands. “Oh my God. Did he see you?”

“Again!” She pointed a finger at her hair. “Purple!” She pointed at the sequins on her top. “Sparkly!” She pointed down to her very short skirt. “Legs!” 

Sally burst out laughing. “Oh my God! Okay, did you see what they’re drinking?”

“Looked like coffee, but they both also have brandies right now, too.”

Sally lowered her hands. “Right. Okay. So should I do this?”

“Are you fucking serious?” Siobhan ducked lower in her chair, hiding behind her orange juice again. “You’re going to buy him a drink because you like his suit?”

Sally bit her lip, then stopped herself - she was wearing lipstick. She reached down for her clutch and pulled out a compact and her lipstick to retouch it. “Yeah, I think I am. I mean, where else am I going to meet someone like him?”

“When he’s indicted for endangering national security? When someone pressed rape charges?”

“No, now don’t make me think like that,” Sally said, suddenly serious again, swatting at Siobhan’s hand. “It’s hard enough stopping me thinking like that. If we keep on, we’ll always be single. I mean, anyone could be a bank robber, or a rapist, or a murderer.”

“That was kind of my point.”

Sally stuck out her tongue, then looked herself over in her mirror again. Her hair was holding up, surprisingly, rolled back from her face like a crown. She didn’t often wear makeup, but when she did, for a night out, it always took her a little while to adjust to seeing so much colour on her face. She was glad she’d gone for the darker, wine-rich red on her lips tonight rather than bright red. That was fun, but somehow she didn’t think the man in that suit went for bright, fun lipstick. 

She took a deep breath, and then, on a whim, tilted her mirror just a little further, until the dark blue suit slid into view. Yes, he did look exactly as good as she’d remembered...

Siobhan saw what she was doing and had started to laugh, when Sally suddenly gasped and snapped the mirror shut. “Oh my God.” Sally froze.

“No, shit... did he see you?” Siobhan asked, her face lighting up with an evil grin.

“He winked at me!”

X

“I told you, she never even saw it.”

Greg bowed his head, giggling into his coffee cup. “She must have. I mean, isn’t it her job to find this stuff out? It was in a national newspaper, for God’s sake.”

“Her assistant claims to have circled it for her.”

“Mm, assistants. That’s what they’re for.”

“Although clearly not, in her case.”

“You know, if Anthea has some free time, I think I know where she could pick up a quid or two.”

“If she has the time, then there are problems of an entirely different order.”

Greg snorted again, then glanced up as he caught a movement of Mycroft’s head from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Mycroft smiled, reaching for his brandy. “Not sure you want to know.”

Greg began to smile. “No, come on. What did I miss?”

Mycroft leaned forward. “All of those times in pubs where someone says, ‘Don’t look now’?”

Greg stiffened his neck muscles, resisting the urge. “Oh. You’re joking.” He laughed again, loudly, and took up his own brandy. “Spectacular. Okay, where?”

Mycroft looked down at his glass. “You’ll never manage it with the snifter.”

Greg swirled the dark liquid around the bottom of the glass, but had to concede. “No wonder you prefer Guinness.” He tipped the brandy up, glancing at the window next to them. “Street’s too light, too. You’re going to have to tell me.”

Mycroft’s face broke into an easy, toothy smile and he leaned back. “Two o’clock. But you won’t be happy. The sequins that went past before? One of my building’s security team. The one I recently had spoken to.”

“Oh, _no,_ it can’t be!” Greg burst out, just managing to keep his voice low. “Here? In sequins?”

“And purple hair. Very impressive transformation, actually. I shall keep an eye on her.”

“Excellent news,” Greg said, grinning. “Get her off the desk and I will be a much happier man.”

“And disrupt my work day more often, no doubt? You know I can’t have that.”

“Afraid someone will see you with a hard-on?”

“As though no one ever has before?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his brandy while Greg crumpled into a laugh. “No, your real objection will be in fifteen seconds.” Mycroft looked past Greg’s shoulder, with a welcoming smile.

Greg resolutely kept his back turned, until two more glasses were set down on the table and he saw the flash of a lowered serving tray, glancing up to see one of the bar staff. “Two ladies sent these over, gents. Said she liked the suit.”

Mycroft smiled and nodded. “And didn’t wish to be pointed out?” Mycroft asked.

“Specifically told me not to,” the man grinned, turning away.

“You winked, didn’t you,” Greg said, slipping his fingers onto the base of the second glass and sliding it in front of him.

“I may have,” Mycroft said, having another sip of the round Greg had bought. “It is nice brandy, after all.”

“So what are you not telling me,” Greg asked, downing the last of his first.

“This round was sent over by your Sergeant... Sally Donovan.”

This time, Greg couldn’t stop himself from spinning around and staring across the bar. “No!”

“Mm,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. “Hair up, dark lipstick, not a wonder you didn’t spot her.”

Greg turned back to him, his eyes wide. “You dog! You can’t flirt with my sergeant! I’m sitting right here!”

“She liked my suit,” Mycroft said mildly, then grinned evilly. “Oh, relax, Greg. She doesn’t know you’re here.”

Greg ran his hand through his hair, which was still wet from the rain. “Good. Good. I’m not really sure I’m ready for this.”

“I’m not really sure there’s anything to be ready for,” Mycroft countered. “They didn’t want to be identified, remember?”

“She liked your suit.” Suddenly, Greg was laughing again, slapping the table, then stretching his arm out across it and resting his forehead on it to try to stifle the sound. “Oh, God! My sergeant likes your suit!”

“I can put my coat back on,” Mycroft offered.

“Oh, the hell with it,” Greg said. “You want to go over?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Up to you. Siobhan barely knows who I am. Do you want her to?”

Greg waved a hand, then scooped up the second brandy. “No, I’m just here for the booze, and to keep the rain off. You’re the analyst. You do the thinking on this one.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, then smiled again. “A moot point. I suggest we choose not to decide. She chose not to be pointed out, and it’s easy enough to pretend we don’t know. But it won’t be long before she comes over, anyway.”

Greg opened his mouth, then shook his head. “No, no. If I ask, you’ll just tell me.” He waved his hand and swallowed half of the remaining brandy. “Any chance you want to leave before we find out?”

“You know you don’t work like that.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Okay. How long do we have?”

“Hm. Five minutes?”

“Sod that. My hair’s still wet.”

“Greg, there’s no point in trying to bait me when you’ve already told me you like it.”

Greg paused, frowning up at him, then realised. “Oh, no, you’re not going to get me to wear a hat, too.”

“Yes. You’d look utterly ridiculous.”

“Reverse psychology? Kids’ stuff, Holmes.”

“Oh, you’d look fine _wearing_ it. It’s once you took it off.”

“Oi.”

Mycroft gave him a sideways frown. “Please. With your hair?”

“I could get it buzzed,” Greg offered.

“Don’t you dare.”

Greg laughed. “Tell me honestly - are you really going to leave Alison Holt out there all night?”

“I could send over some coffee and a note.”

“Saying what?”

“An anonymous source with the building layout?”

“She’d never believe it.”

“She might at 3am.”

“Do you really, genuinely believe it’ll take her that long?”

“Why do you keep asking as though you believe I’m lying?” Mycroft asked, glancing down as he shifted his feet.

“I just hope you’re wrong.” Greg raised a hand to block the emerging reflections and peer out the window. “It’s still coming down. Not as bad, but still.”

“They all had vans, Greg. They’ll be fine. This is the job.”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s your mess, you made it, so you have to sort it.”

“There’s a thought,” Mycroft said, looking up at him with bright eyes. “Alison Holt doesn’t like you much, either.”

“Don’t drag me down with you.”

“No, no. I think you’ll like this...”

X

“Are you really making me do this?” Siobhan muttered at Sally’s back.

“I’m not doing it alone,” Sally said firmly, turning her head back over her shoulder to glare at Siobhan. “And it needs to be done.”

“Not by us.”

“Shut up!” Sally turned back, forcing herself to make eye contact with the man in the suit as she strode up to his table. She gave him a perfunctory smile, but then turned to the silver-haired man opposite him, who was looking up at her with round brown eyes, his mouth slightly open. “Sir,” she said.

“Donovan.” Greg nodded, glanced at Siobhan, and looked back at Donovan. It was safer.

Sally turned away from him, and put on her most sincere smile. “I just had to come and tell you, that suit is fan-fucking-tastic.”

Mycroft nodded slightly, not quite smiling up at her. “Thank you. And thank you for the brandy.”

“My pleasure. Can I ask where you got it?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise and took a breath. “This...Ladbroke Grove, I believe. Why? Do you think you can persuade Lestrade to go there?”

Now it was Sally’s turn to widen her eyes, her mouth alternately trying to laugh out loud and make an open-jawed _O_ of surprise. She gave up and laughed once, looking down at her boss again. “No. No, I don’t think he would.”

Greg gave a theatrical, long-suffering sigh and leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. He raised one hand to Sally. “Sergeant Sally Donovan, meet Mycroft Holmes,” he said, without looking at either one of them.

Sally took a step back, making Siobhan dodge aside. “Holmes? Like, as in the Freak?” Then her hands flew up to her face.

Mycroft straightened fractionally, lifting his chin, raising his eyebrows at her. “Oh, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s just... well, you know what he’s like,” Sally said, making a face, flapping her hands vaguely.

Mycroft didn’t exactly roll his eyes, but he brushed her discomposure aside with a flick of his eyelids, and rose. “Yes, I’ve met him, although I do try not to do it too often.” He shook his head as Greg shifted expectantly. “No, I’ll just be a moment. You both will join us, won’t you?” He smiled briefly, his glance taking in Siobhan as well, who seemed to be thinking she had successfully witnessed without being seen. “Please, take mine.” He waved a hand at his chair, and moved off through the crowd.

This left Greg with his sergeant, who was now deeply red-faced, and Siobhan, who was trying to pretend she didn’t know anyone but Sally. He looked up at their faces, and decided to have mercy. “Oh, go on, Donovan, sit down already. And yes, Siobhan, we’ve seen you, we know it’s you.” He waved her over, and got to his feet. “Have a seat.”

Siobhan looked up at him as he straightened in front of her. She hadn’t decided yet how to deal with this, and her face was her usual default blank. Greg rolled his eyes at her, setting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her into his chair. “Yes, yes, I know. Mycroft’s off doing his party trick. Oh, here it comes now.” He grinned, seeing Mycroft easing back through the crowd with a pair of stacked chairs. Greg hitched up his belt, shaking his head as Mycroft arrived. “See? That. Right there. How the hell do you find empty chairs in this lot?”

“Did you bribe someone?” Donovan asked, smiling at him.

Mycroft gave a facial shrug. “Trade secret.” He took the chair next to Sally, leaving Greg to sit beside Siobhan, who still hadn’t managed to speak.

“He never tells,” Greg told Sally. “Be no point going to a pub with him at all, if he told.”

“I have other useful skills,” Mycroft said mildly, and turned to the bar, now behind him. He lifted his head, something in his posture changed, and then he raised a hand, gestured over his shoulder, then held up his brandy snifter, gestured again, nodded, and turned back to find everyone at the table staring. “What?” he asked mildly.

“You can order a fucking drink from the other side of a crowded fucking bar,” Sally said, staring at him, nodding slightly with her words. “Damn, son, you are good.”

Greg sighed in mock despair, and Mycroft laughed. “My pleasure. One has to acquire some skills in order to achieve a suit like this.”

Sally was quite pleased, Greg could tell, and he couldn’t resist needling her. “But you’re just impressed because you expected him to be like Sherlock, didn’t you? Soon as I said ‘Holmes,’ admit it. No matter what he looked like, your mind went right down that path. See? That’s why you’re still a sergeant.”

“Never said I wanted to move up,” Sally said, shrugging. “You don’t particularly sing the praises of being a DI.” Greg had to admit that was true.

“Siobhan, your secret is entirely safe,” Mycroft dropped in, smoothly, watching the silent fourth member of the group. 

She looked up at him without blinking, her green eyes round. “Secret?” she asked. 

Greg met Sally’s eyes, saw what she was about to say, and shook his head quickly, raising a finger to his lips. The move drew Siobhan’s gaze away from Mycroft and Greg shrugged, sitting back. “I’m not saying anything.”

“Just the one certification left?” Mycroft went on. “Any plans?”

“Plans?” Siobhan repeated, looking confused to the edge of tears.

Sally and Mycroft burst out laughing, and now Greg was confused. “Hang on, hang on here! Why is that funny?”

“That’s it exactly! _Exactly!”_ Sally gasped, turning to Mycroft. “Oh, my God! That was him!”

“I don’t understand,” Siobhan said, looking from Sally to Mycroft and back, and then at Greg, who shrugged.

“Don’t look at me, I’ve no idea.” Greg watched them laugh a little longer, but there didn’t appear to be a break coming. Sally was drunk enough to have tears coming to her eyes. Mycroft was much more restrained, but he had had a few drinks, and he had no intention of volunteering any information on the joke. Greg watched the way he bit his finger, and the way he avoided Greg’s eyes made it clear. “Oh, so this is about me, too, now, is it?” He looked over at Siobhan again. “I thought this was just going to be his usual Holmes bollocks, but now I’ve _really_ got no idea. Sorry.”

“Usual Holmes bollocks?” Siobhan asked.

Sally shrieked again, rocking back in her chair, and he didn’t even bother to look. He could hear Mycroft trying to calm her down, so he just turned his chair slightly toward Siobhan. “Yeah. Him and his brother. They do this thing, where they look you over, jump to a bunch of conclusions based on tiny little things none of the rest of us bother with, and then throw your life’s story at you. _Usually_ Mycroft’s a little more decent about it. I dunno what he was saying, and I dunno what set them off laughing.”

Siobhan looked down at the table, thinking carefully. “Am I in trouble?” she asked seriously.

Greg grinned, finding he was suddenly deeply enjoying having the upper hand with her, and not inclined to abuse it. He’d probably regret that decision in the morning. “Nah. Really, it’s okay. I dunno what he was on about, but you’re not in any trouble. Pretty sure.” Probably. 

Greg glanced back at Sally and Mycroft. “Oi. You two. This is all really tactful. Are you done now? Mycroft, are you going to try to get anyone fired? Because that’s what you’ve got her thinking.”

Mycroft straightened. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“What did you mean about making plans, then?” Siobhan asked carefully.

“You’ve nearly finished your training, got your certifications; I didn’t think you’d have much reason to stay in security, with your degree.”

Sally was still giggling occasionally, and watching Siobhan’s face, and trying very hard not to laugh, and failing. 

“Donovan, the next time Sherlock does this at a crime scene and you tell me he’s wasting time, I will have you on desk duty for a month,” Greg said sternly. It barely registered with her.

“I do find it interesting that you still address Sergeant Donovan by her surname, even when you’re both off duty,” Mycroft said, turning to Greg. “And she still calls you ‘Sir.’”

“I didn’t even know he had a first name for about a year,” Sally said, glancing at her boss.

“Stop flitting about and explain yourself to Siobhan or I’m going to slap your first name right off,” Greg announced, his attention now wholly on Mycroft.

Mycroft looked past Greg, smiled at someone, and reached into his pocket. Surprised, Greg turned and saw one of the barstaff approaching with a tray of drinks. One, two brandies were set down on the table, then when the third came into view past her head, Siobhan said, “Um, actually, I don’t drink.” Mycroft looked at her as a glass of orange juice was set in front of her. “Oh.”

Mycroft smiled and lifted his head, holding a folded banknote between two fingers. He waved off the unspoken question of change, and looked back at Siobhan. “Nothing too dramatic in terms of deductions. You raised my interest when I heard there were certain...complaints made about your thoroughness.”

Siobhan visibly flinched, and Greg set a hand on her wrist. “Mycroft,” he said, warningly.

“Please, calm yourselves. The impression was favourable,” Mycroft said with another graceful hand gesture. “Anyone able to hold a security position with purple hair has mastered some useful techniques.”

“Like my hair colour would interfere with my job.”

“Well, _I_ never noticed it,” Greg said.

“That is my point,” Mycroft said, leaning forward just enough to pick up one of the glasses of brandy. “You have succeeded. You got away with it.”

“But how did you know about my degree?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Was it a secret? I’m sorry.”

“Are you in charge of security or something?” Siobhan asked, glaring at Greg when he laughed, this time. 

“Not exactly. I’m not part of your chain of command, although I do have...access to it.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“Possibly. Are you interested?”

“Possibly,” she fired back.

“Well done,” Greg said, patting her on the back. 

Sally had been watching the conversation as though it were a tennis match, and now blinked and sat up. “Did you just give Siobhan a new job?”

“Offered to point her out to someone who may,” Mycroft said smoothly. 

“Hang on, can I just clear something up?” Sally said, then charged ahead without waiting for an answer. “You two know each through Sherlock,” she said, pointing at Greg and Mycroft, “and you know my boss because he’s gone through your security checkpoint,” she went on, pointing at Siobhan.

“We don’t actually know each other,” Greg interrupted. “But she’s annoyed me.” 

Greg didn’t look at her, so he didn’t see Siobhan frown and glare in his direction without moving her head. Sally laughed, though. “And you work in the building where Siobhan does,” she finished. “This is the kind of thing that... look, if this were a case, I’d have you all in the interview rooms. That’s just not a coincidence.”

“We all work in similar areas, though,” Mycroft said quickly, swirling his brandy. “Law enforcement, more or less. And this is a pub that I believe is well known to the Met...?” Sally conceded the point with a shrug.

“Okay, law enforcement?” she asked, reaching a finger toward Mycroft’s arm but not quite touching him. “What do you do?”

“Civil servant,” he said blandly. 

“He was at the scene tonight, helping me manage the media,” Greg added.

“You’re like PR?” Sally asked, not giving in.

Greg looked from his sergeant to Mycroft, and the noise he made wasn’t exactly a laugh, but it would do. “Sort of.”

“So which of you is the black sheep? Are you the odd normal one in the family, or is your brother the odd weird one?”

“Don’t go there, Donovan,” Greg said.

“But really, I mean, you’re just so...normal,” Sally said, turning to Mycroft.

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment,” Mycroft mused. “But you mustn’t tempt me. Lestrade is right. My brother can be challenging, but he can also be useful, or so I’ve been assured.”

“My God. It must be the end of the world,” Greg said, throwing himself back in his chair. “I think someone other than John just said something almost nice about Sherlock.”

Mycroft gave him a look that showed just how much restraint had been used, and Sally gave a mock gasp. “No, fair’s fair, I started it,”she said, “so I’ll end it. If someone like you can be his brother, then maybe there’s hope for him.” Sally raised her glass, tapping the rim against Mycroft’s, who looked doubtful, but didn’t argue.

“Oh, now I know this is set up,” Greg said, grabbing his own brandy and finishing it off.

“I don’t get it,” Siobhan admitted with a shrug. “I always thought he sounded brilliant, but I guess I’m the only one here who hasn’t met him.”

“Before this wonderful moment of solidarity drifts,” Mycroft said, setting his empty glass on the table. “I would like to make a request.”

Greg frowned, tipping his head at Mycroft. “Oh?”

“Lestrade has a message he would like delivered. I propose we accompany him. It should make it a bit easier,” Mycroft finished, raising an eyebrow at Greg.

“And what message is that?” Greg said, knowing he had missed something, but the brandy in him couldn’t be arsed to figure it out. Not when there was a convenient Holmes who had already done all the thinking. 

“Your concerns regarding the events earlier.”

“Oh? What were they?”

“You mean the thing with the hostages?” Sally asked, glancing from one to the other.

“Oh. Ohh! Right!” Greg said, sitting forward and folding his hands on the table, then pausing. “No, no... still don’t get it.”

“Well _I_ can’t approach them, you see that?” Mycroft said.

“Approach who? Oh! Ohhh! Sorry, yeah, now I’ve got you. Right.” He frowned, rubbing his chin. “Not really sure what you want me to say, though. I could tell them to just fuck off,” he suggested brightly.

“Give me patience...” Mycroft sighed, running his fingers across his forehead. Sally laughed again. “I’ll take care of what you will need to tell them. You’ll be giving them another story, one they can’t resist, they won’t question your source. I shall be the straw man. Throw me on the bonfire, and they will not hesitate to believe it.”

Greg finally understood. “Okay, so they’re not going to think I’m a pushover. Right. But you’re going to look like a hell of a shit.”

“I’ve looked far worse. It’s all part of the game, Lestrade.”

“More problems for you, though.”

“The scale of the problems for me is so negligible that it does not even register.”

“Pissing off a few of the national press. Yeah, I guess for you, that’s a good day.” Mycroft gave him a look, but Greg just made a childish face at him and looked around for his coat. “Right, works for me, so I’m in. You two?” 

Sally shrugged. “Fine with me. Siobhan?”

Siobhan nodded slowly. “Still not really sure what we’re along for.”

Mycroft unfolded himself, scooping his coat off the back of Sally’s chair and tossing it over his arm before picking up his umbrella and hat. “For the look of the thing, and style, and as Lestrade’s backup if anything goes wrong.”

“Hey, I’m not authorized to do anything outside of the building,” Siobhan said, raising her hands. “I’m just a luckless bystander, out here.”

“Hardly luckless,” Mycroft said. He tipped his head, peering out the window. “Shame. Still raining.”

Greg looked around the group. “Ahh, Donovan, don’t make me regret this. Look, you’re taller.” He pointed at Mycroft, and swung his finger across to Sally before holding his coat out to Siobhan. “Put it on. Don’t argue. We have a little bit of a walk in this.”

Mycroft was smiling, already holding his coat up for Sally to slip into. “The same applies to you, I’m afraid.”

“You should know you’ll never get it back. Even the _lining_ is gorgeous,” she sighed, running her hand across the shining dark grey silk. 

“It really isn’t kind to make me envy my own clothing,” Mycroft said with a little sigh, staring past her at the door as he settled the shoulders of his coat on her.

“Oh my God! Did you just hit on me?” Sally asked, turning to look up at him, delighted.

Greg glanced back at the pair of them, his lips parted to say something, but he just grinned and turned back to Siobhan. 

“In honour of the amount of alcohol consumed this evening, I shall defer my answer till our next meeting.” 

“Avoiding,” Sally pointed out, but she was still open-mouthed and smiling.

“Prolonging,” he countered, nodding past her to where Siobhan and Lestrade were already at the doors. She gave him another cocky look-over, but headed for the doors.

Greg held the door for them, giving Mycroft a grin and a shake of his head. Mycroft fixed his eyes on him with a slight smile, and strode smoothly past, swiveling his eyes as he did without moving his head, keeping his focus on Greg’s face, raising his eyebrows slightly just as Greg left his view. Only Mycroft heard the snort of laughter Greg could no longer hold in.

Out on the pavement, Mycroft dipped his head slightly as he put on his hat, then raised his umbrella. “Gallantry aside, Inspector, you are the least protected,” he said, offering the handle to Greg.

“No, no. You and Donovan can be the swish couple.” He turned up the collar on his jacket and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, turning to walk backwards, adding, “Besides, my suit’s machine washable crap, just for occasions like this.”

Mycroft shrugged and pivoted, offering Sally his arm. “That sounded very much like an order.”

Sally put her hand on his arm very tentatively at first. “Are you really sure you and ...Sherlock are related?”

“So I am assured,” Mycroft said absently, putting his own hand in his pocket and pulling out his mobile. “Forgive the rudeness; we may have to walk on the way there, but there is absolutely no need to continue the charade for long afterwards.” He frowned at the screen, texting with one thumb while managing the umbrella with his other hand.

“I can take it, if you like,” Sally offered, reaching up to the handle, touching his hand, but pulling back when his grip never shifted.

“No, no. We’re fine. Done here.” He smiled at her, tucking the phone back in an inside pocket of his jacket.

“I take it your brother’s caused a fair bit of trouble for you.”

“Oh? What makes you think that?”

“You seem to know my boss pretty well, and he’s not really all that into politics.”

“It’s funny how many of the police think they’re not involved in politics, when, from a certain point of view, that’s all they ever are,” he mused.

“See a lot of coppers hanging out in Whitehall?” Sally asked sarcastically. “Because if you give me their collar numbers, pretty sure we can do them for dereliction of duty.”

“Far too simple, Sergeant. I’m ashamed of you.”

“We either stopped drinking too soon, or not soon enough. That was some _damn_ fine brandy.”

“Or possibly our timing was just right.” Greg and Siobhan had stopped at the edge of the pavement, waiting for a crossing signal, and Mycroft raised his umbrella slightly to take them all in, tipping it slightly so the wind didn’t catch it.

“And suddenly, they’ve caught us up,” Greg said, without turning round. “It’s gone all dry.”

“Maybe it’s a drought,” Siobhan suggested, taking her cue from Greg.

“Donovan,” Greg said.

“Sir?”

“You’re thinking about saying something about the size of it. Don’t pretend you weren’t. I know what you’re like when you’ve had a few.”

“Was I thinking too loudly for you, sir? Because I’m sorry, but _I_ can’t stop.”

“You can certainly stop what you’re thinking about. You’re making my hair blush.”

“Wasn’t about you, sir.”

“I know!”

“Don’t make me separate you two,” Mycroft said. “If it comes to it, Siobhan and I can take care of this little errand without you.”

“Dad’s going to turn the car around and take us straight home,” Greg said over his shoulder at Sally.

“Speak for yourself. I might just let him.” Sally said kicking lightly at Greg’s heel.

Greg groaned, letting his head tip back. “No, don’t mind us, you two just carry on back there. Give us a head start before you start making wet noises and whimpering with your mouths full.” He glanced down at Siobhan, squeezed his arm against his side, pressing her fingers close as they stepped off the pavement in a gap between cars. 

“That was just fucking rude!” Sally called to him across a passing cab, as Greg hurried Siobhan across the next lane as well, his profile clearly showing that he was grinning.

Mycroft shifted the umbrella to his other hand and put his arm around Sally as she started to follow. “No, wait,” he said, his left hand on her left shoulder.

She looked down at it, then turned to look up at him. “What do you -” She stopped as she saw his eyes still tracking Greg and Siobhan. 

“Let them get ahead of us again. We’re almost there, just around that next corner, I should think,” he said, nodding down the street. Then he tilted the umbrella down, blocking her view of Greg and Siobhan, lifting his hand from her shoulder to hold his hat as a gust swept past them. 

“Ohh, that’s exactly the kind of thing I’m not supposed to do,” Sally sighed, looking up at him, close enough that the coat she wore - his coat, just that bit too long for her - blew against his legs. “God, you are gorgeous.”

Mycroft smiled. “Now Sergeant, I know you’re only talking to my suit.”

“Fuck the suit. I mean you.”

“It would be unfair of me to act on anything you say this evening,” Mycroft told her, his full attention now bent on studying her face, her hair, her eyes. “Knowing how Lestrade values you, I can’t allow you to unnecessarily complicate your life based on the quality of the brandy in the pub.”

“What about the quality of the man?” she asked, shifting a little closer.

Mycroft moved to the edge of the pavement, drawing her after him with the shelter of the umbrella. “We’ll need to cross now,” he said, glancing aside at the lights, reaching back for her hand. “Come on.”

“I am serious, you know. I’m not that drunk.”

“I know exactly how much of this is due to the alcohol, yes,” Mycroft said, striding along, his cool grip on her hand firm. “And how much is due to the contrast between me and Sherlock.”

“I am _really_ not thinking of your brother right now.”

“But you are,” he said softly, raising his free hand to his hat again. “And of your boss.”

“Do you seriously mean you think I’m secretly lusting after.... _him?”_

“He’s right to have a high opinion of you, Sergeant. You don’t like to leave anything unanswered.” He glanced down at her. “You will not draw me out on speculations about anything you may or may not have considered. Your distaste for even saying Sherlock’s name speaks volumes, and with Gregory Lestrade as your commanding officer, there is no one, neither man nor woman, who would not look at him with lust, at some time or another.”

“Are you serious?” Donovan blurted. “Lestrade? But he’s so...old.”

“Is he?” Mycroft asked.

“Isn’t he? I mean, silver fox thing yeah, but... I mean, he’s been in the job for, like, twenty-five years, hasn’t he? So he’s got to be...”

“Has he? Twenty-five years. That would make him, oh, at least forty-three?”

“Yeah.” Sally was quiet. 

Mycroft slowed as they neared the corner, and Sally blinked and turned to look at him, clearly startled out of her train of thought. She had her hands in the pockets of Mycroft’s coat to hold it around her in the gusts, and looked surprisingly small and fragile, just then. Mycroft settled his hat firmly and then reached up to close the umbrella. “I’m sorry, but we’re of no use to Lestrade if we can’t be seen.” 

“I understand,” Sally said, making an effort to focus, and with mock solemnity.

As a compromise, Mycroft reached around behind her shoulders. For just an instant, Sally was completely certain that he was about to set his hand on the back of her neck and bend down to kiss her. Instead, he pulled up the back of the coat’s collar, wrapping it a little more snugly around her “I think we’re ready.”

She nodded, and he settled his arm around her shoulders again, nudging her out into the side street.

“ _There_ you are!” Mycroft called brightly to a couple snogging up against the building on the opposite side of the street.

Under his arm, Mycroft felt Sally tense, then fall forward in a genuine gasp of surprised laughter. He used it as an excuse to stagger just slightly himself. “Oh, don’t stare, we shouldn’t stare,” he told Sally, turning her toward him.

“Oh my God, though! _Oh my God!”_

“It isn’t nice. You mustn’t. No, you really mustn’t.” He bent down over her, lifting his hand to his hat, now the only protection his face had from the wind and rain. “Hang on, hang on hang on.” He reached into his jacket and retrieved his mobile, holding it out at arm’s length. Sally leaned back against his chest, looking at the screen. Instead of an image of her boss’s silver hair, one arm up against the wall, the collar of his jacket turned up around him and helping to hide his face as he bent low over Siobhan, who had her back up against the wall as well as one foot, however, she caught a glimpse of a text message, and then _Message Sent_. 

“No, no, wait,” she said quickly, ducking out past the end of his arm and facing him, pointing back over her shoulder with a ludicrous grin. Without quite knowing why, Mycroft took the photo, just as Greg swore and moved back, pulling his phone out of his pocket and turning his back to Siobhan. 

“Ahh, fuck’s sake, you bastard,” Greg called to Mycroft. “I thought we’d lost you.”

“You should have said,” Mycroft returned mildly. He lowered his phone, sharing the image with Sally and making her giggle again. “When you said you needed to do something before we looked for a cab, I didn’t know this is what you meant. We can leave without you, if you prefer.”

“Nah, just shut up, stay there.” He swung away, back toward Siobhan, who had folded her arms on her chest and was watching them all with an impatient tilt to her head that made her seem indecently young with Greg’s damp mac dwarfing her, but otherwise she hadn’t moved. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through it before stilling, reading. “No, um. You guys wait here. I’ve just got to go do something.”

“Do you need anything?” Mycroft asked a little too gleefully.

“What? No! _No!_ Look, you...” He waved his hand at Siobhan, gesturing back toward Mycroft and Sally. “Go wait for me back with them. I _promise_ I won’t be long.” Greg broke into a jog down the center of the street, raising his hands to shelter his eyes and peering at the line of parked vans as he passed them.

Siobhan sauntered slowly over to Mycroft and Sally, spreading her hands in a silent _what now?_ gesture as she drew near.

“And now we watch, and we wait, and we keep talking and laughing.” Mycroft held out his arm to Siobhan.

“You’d regret that,” Siobhan said, nodding at his arm. “I’m kinda wet.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft snorted, reaching and scooping her close, shifting his weight back so he stooped a bit, as though drunkenly, hanging off the two women supporting his arms. “I think we’ve been conspicuous enough now that you can use the umbrella, if you’d like. Though it might be a little difficult to manage in this wind.” He ran one languid hand across the crown of his hat, then let it fall back onto Sally’s shoulders.

“We’re just supposed to be two drunk women you and Lestrade picked up in the pub?” Sally asked doubtfully.

“Or possibly two women _I_ picked up in the pub, as the unreliable government stooge,” Mycroft said quietly, his voice far more sober than it had been since they’d left the pub. “Lestrade is resentfully babysitting me but unable to restrain all of my excesses, and taking a vicious delight in undercutting my authority with the press.”

“So we’re _all_ drunk, here, the three of us,” Sally repeated. “I just want to be clear on this.”

“That is the story, yes,” Mycroft answered, his eyes still on Lestrade, who had reached a blue van halfway down the street and was knocking on the window.

“Right, then!” Sally said brightly. She ducked away from Mycroft’s arm and smiled up at him. “I’ve got every excuse I need.” She reached up to the lapels of his suit jacket and ran her hands across them reverently, biting her lip. “Mm. Positively criminal not to,” she said, half to herself, stroking his jacket, then his waistcoat before grabbing hold of his tie with her right hand. “Come here, you.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly as she yanked his head down, but he didn’t try to resist. Sally moved her hands onto his face as she became more sure of him, and he withdrew his arm from Siobhan’s shoulders, let the umbrella fall from his hand, and settled his arms around Sally, one forearm parallel to her spine, his palm against the collar of the coat, his fingers tunneling into the dense crown of her bundled hair, the other arm across her shoulderblades. 

Siobhan, at a loss, took a step back, then bent to pick up the long cane-handled umbrella that had clattered at her feet. When she straightened again, they were still at it. She started to grin, and pulled Lestrade’s coat tighter around herself, catching just a slight scent of him as she ducked her nose into the neck to hide her grin. A stronger gust swept down the street toward them, rattling a plastic coffee cup across the road, sweeping Mycroft’s coat around Sally, blowing the tails past his thighs as well before knocking the hat off his head. Neither of them  so much as twitched. With no other options in sight, Siobhan turned and ran after the hat as it tumbled along the road.

The gust didn’t last long, and she snatched it up, inspecting it under a streetlight, brushing off a clump of wet, mashed paper pulp that had caught on the brim. The orange glare from the lamp made the lining appear a dull peach, and she guessed that in daylight, it would be a pale blue. She ran a cautious finger around the inside of the crown, stroking the sleek fabric, before looking up guiltily. But no, Mycroft and Sally were only just separating, and Lestrade was still talking to whoever it was in the van.

Mycroft stepped back from Sally, and Siobhan could hear them both breathing a little hard as she stopped behind him. He whirled round suddenly, clearly remembering his hat, and started as Siobhan held it out to him. “Ah, thank you,” he said, reaching for it.

Siobhan didn’t let go. “Equal time seems fair pay.”

Mycroft tipped his head in surprise, his eyes widening. “Is this a negotiation?” he countered.

“Not even close.” She grabbed his wrist, letting go of his hat and pulling him down within range of her own lips. She was shorter than Sally, and wearing flats, but she was clearly determined, and backed him up against the wall in no time. Mycroft, bumped to a halt by the building, reached down with his free arm and scooped her up, straightening his back until her feet were a foot off the ground, his head cocked to the side to match her ferocity.

There was a sharp whistle behind them, and Sally spun around, recognizing the sound before she even realised. _“Oi!_ Oi, now!” Lestrade was striding back toward them, the headlights of two of the vans behind him switching on and turning him into a dark shape at the end of a shadowy tunnel in the rain. “Less of that, you two!” He clapped his hands, trying to get Siobhan and Mycroft’s attention.

Sally turned back to watch them, and Mycroft was lowering Siobhan to the pavement, slowly and carefully, straightening as he pulled his lips away and ran a hand across his damp hair. He replaced his hat, grinning hugely. “I’m sorry, did you say something?” he called back. “My mind was otherwise occupied.”

Greg shook his head as he hitched up his belt again. “It wasn’t your mind I was worried about. You’re a disgrace, you’re a _nightmare._ They should never have let you out.” His words had absolutely no effect beyond making Mycroft’s grin widen. “Well,” Greg sighed, “I guess if you’ve got anything communicable, then I’m going to catch it too, tonight.” 

He reached out, caught Siobhan’s hand and dragged her forward, leaning in for his own kiss. The light behind him shifted, and he glanced back, turning Siobhan in his arms to see the vans on the move. “Hold that thought,” he said, bent, and scooped her up, her legs and the tails of his coat hanging over one arm. He leaned in for another quick kiss as he carried her back to the pavement, clearing the road. The front passenger in one of the vans flashed a thumbs-up out the window as they turned out onto the main road. “There we go,” Greg said, quirking a smile at the look on Siobhan’s face as he lowered her legs and let her stand. Her expression actually made up for all the times she had unnecessarily frisked him. 

“That went well,” Mycroft said, his grin fading to a more sincere smile as they watched the vans roar away.

“I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll know much sooner than that,” Mycroft said, swiveling to give Greg a knowing half-smile. “There’ll be texting before bedtime,” he added in a mockery of parental warning, and Greg laughed.

“Oh, God, you’re right.” On a sudden inspiration, he pulled out his mobile and touched the screen. “Text notifications _silent_.”

“So what did you actually tell them?” Siobhan asked. “And who were they?”

“That was a substantial section of the national media, who thought they could outwit Mycroft here by doing almost exactly as he told them.” Greg said, his hands back in his pockets and starting to take slow steps toward the main road again, nodding for them to join him. “I didn’t exactly tell them anything. I merely noted that I had it on very good authority from a private source that Mister Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street was due to arrive back at his flat sometime in the next six hours, and that he had been on the continent for ten days, had met with the British Ambassadors to Poland and Thailand, and had an appointment in Whitehall this morning.”

“You made up a story in order to send them off on a wild goose chase?” Donovan said, shaking her head in disbelief. “No wonder you hate press conferences so much. The next time you have to do one, do not ask me to go up there with you. They’ll be cleaning out their fridges the night before in order to find new things to throw.”

“Oh, it isn’t a lie,” Mycroft said, still smiling at her words. He’d taken his umbrella back from Siobhan and now they were strolling slowly along in Greg’s wake, Siobhan with her hands clasped around Mycroft’s free arm, and Sally on his other side, one hand still in her pocket to hold half of his coat around her in the gusts, the other hand on top of his on the handle of the umbrella, helping to steady it. “He will be arriving at City airport in two hours, then he’ll go to the flat, and be in my office shouting at me by nine fifteen.” He paused, a moue of reluctance on his face at the thought. “More likely eight forty-five.”

“But what was the point?” Siobhan said. 

“Lestrade didn’t want to leave them here, in the cold and the dark, overnight, watching for a door that never existed to open and show them the secret witnesses to today’s events that the government were determined the press should never know about.”

“But there weren’t any.”

“They didn’t believe that.”

“They would have figured it out, though. Eventually,” Sally said with calm certainty.

“Sometime tomorrow afternoon, perhaps,” Mycroft agreed. “But this way, Lestrade gets to be the kind-hearted policeman who gives them a story and saves them from wasting their time on a non-story. It won’t last long, but it should at least cut down on the amount of rotting air-borne vegetables at your next press conference.”

“That was very kind of you,” Sally said, looking up at him fondly.

“That’s an interesting view of having violated a promise of discretion about two decades of ambassadorial infidelity, embezzling, and double-dealing. Not to mention infuriating Sherlock, setting the clock back on our sibling relationship about thirty years, and causing  mild cardiac events among the staff of three ministerial offices.” He shrugged, implying that there was more, but it wasn’t worth going into.

Greg turned around, grinning at them and walking backwards to add, “Yeah, but wasn’t it _fun?”_

“I think that would be indiscreet of me to comment on.”

Greg stuck out his tongue, still grinning, and turned away. “Oh, look! It’s a cab!” He held out his arm and flagged it down. “Right, Holmes, I don’t need you any more.”

“I think you’ll find that debriefing by certain departments of the government goes a lot more smoothly when I’m there,” Mycroft said, strolling over to the door of the cab, his eyes on his feet.

“Oh, bollocks. They’re not going to wait until morning?” Greg sighed, one foot already on the floor of the cab.

“You can always _ask_ ,” Mycroft said in a tone of voice that added, _and they will always refuse._  

“Bollocks,” Greg repeated. He stepped back from the cab and waved Donovan toward it. “Right. Best get it over with. Look, you two take this one, yeah? We seem to be going in very different directions. I may be a bit late in the morning, Donovan. Make sure Warner finishes his report on that rape case - CPS are not happy with him.”

Sally blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the abrupt change back to work mode. “Oh. Uh, yes sir. Right.” She took a breath, and turned to Mycroft. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it was a real pleasure meeting you. Mycroft Holmes.” She smiled, shaking her head at the unlikelihood of smiling while saying the name Holmes.

“Likewise, Sergeant Donovan,” Mycroft said with a slight bow. “And you, Siobhan. Someone will be in touch with you shortly after your final certification.”

Siobhan looked up at him, her eyes wide, and then her face quirked into an endearing dimpled smile she hadn’t shown all evening. “Cheers, mate!” She bounced into the cab behind Sally and slammed the door, as if afraid someone else might say something to ruin the moment. Mycroft slapped the roof of the cab, and it pulled away from the kerb.

“You complete nutter,” Greg said into the silence as they watched the cab merge into traffic and essentially disappear. “I knew it as soon as you winked at her. You had to go and kiss both of them.”

“I could hardly refuse,” Mycroft said mildly.

“No, I know Donovan, and believe me, you really couldn’t,” he added, smiling. “But the worst part is that you let them go off with our coats.”

“You see, that is exactly the kind of thing that gets you in trouble with Sherlock.”

“Yeah, but he’s not here,” Greg said loudly. “And the fact remains - it was bad enough when I had a coat.”

“We were wet anyway,” Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose, and pointing past Greg. “And really, you should have more faith in me by now.”

The usual large, black sedan pulled up next to them. “Oh,” Greg said, deflated. “You called all of this in?”

“Again, you always underestimate me.” Mycroft reached past him and opened the door.

“Do we really need to be debriefed tonight?” Greg asked, shifting along on the seat to make room for Mycroft, and watching in quiet amazement, as he always did, as Mycroft folded his long legs into the car so smoothly.

“Ah. Not in the sense you’re asking. Bayswater?”

“Anything with a tub,” Greg sighed, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “You sure you’re all right? I haven’t dared ask you.”

Mycroft thumbed the intercom for the driver. “Bayswater, Patrick.” He flicked it off again before glancing at Greg. “Yes, of course.”

“You did spend quite a bit of the day as a hostage.”

“Again, stating the obvious. You really must learn to control that.”

“Well sometimes with your family, the things the rest of us find obvious just... _aren’t._ ”

“If you want me to start right here, in the car, Greg, I swear to you, you will regret it in the morning. And you will have to be into work tomorrow as your DS will want access to your office in order to slip in and leave our coats on your rack.”

“You don’t think she’ll want to ask for your number?”

“Once the brandy’s worn off, she won’t dare,” he chuckled.

“How about Siobhan? I mean, when did you even have time to _do_ that?”

“I was merely standing in for you.”

“Like hell.”

“Next time, then, _you_ hang back and play idiotic drunk while I rush in as the dashing, heroic double-agent.”

“Shut up or I _won’t_ be able to get out of this car.”


End file.
